The Problem with Merlin and Morgana
by Mnemosyne77
Summary: Morgana and Merlin ponder the problem that is each other. M/M. Spoilers for 2x12. COMPLETE. At least until someone convinces me to write more. Again.
1. The Problem with Merlin

**Author's Note: I actually started writing something similar to this for 'A Lion and a Unicorn' but it didn't fit so I ditched it. Inspired by brickroad16's most recent 'Embers' story, and a general feeling that we need more M/M, I decided to completely re-write it as a one-shot. I was also planning on doing a Part 2 from Merlin's perspective called the Problem with Morgana but with the way Season 2's going, the only problem with Morgana is that she's never there. **

* * *

The problem with him was his eyes. As he passed through your vision during the day, barely noticeable, always busy, you could think he was just a servant. Roughly-dressed, simple, kind and friendly, he was like so many other peasants that darted temporarily through your vision as you concentrated on more important things; more important people. And then you saw his eyes.

They were light blue in sunlight, dark blue indoors, greyish-green with flecks of gold in the firelight and dark, almost black, in candelight. Other people's eyes saw her beauty, her status, her poise and her natural command. His eyes saw her. She passed him in the corridor and he stood off to the side and bowed his head slightly. His eyes looked up at her as he acknowledged her with a simple, "milady" and she looked into them and she drowned. Her pulse quickened and she thought, for one mad moment, of pushing him against the stone wall behind him; holding him there with her own weight. And then those eyes were gone and she was free.

* * *

The problem with him was his smile. When his face was composed, you could think he was ordinary; a farm boy with big ears. You could dismiss him as you wandered through a castle full of people who did not understand you, did not know that you had secrets; who would kill you if they knew what lay behind your practiced smile.

And then he would smile and his whole face would change, lighting up with an inner fire. He would smile at the cooks and the meals would be better, smile at the chambermaids and the rooms would be cleaner, smile at the guards and they would harass people less. He would smile at Arthur and Arthur would struggle desperately not to smile back. He smiled at her and her stomach would jump and flip, her heart missing beats for several seconds. For one small moment, she would feel the world was a better place. And then the smile was gone and she was alone again.

* * *

The problem with him was his hands. She would sit in a banquet or a feast, bored with small talk, stuck between Uther whom she feared and Arthur whom she barely noticed these days. She would be aware of the servants fluttering about her, refilling goblets and bringing courses, but only as a part of the normal buzz of the room. And then he would whisper in her ear to see if she wanted more wine and she would glance up, seeing his eyes and his smile and then look down at his long, thin fingers clutching the jug.

His hands were elegant and strong, their supple fingers wrapping around the end of whatever he was holding, the small calluses that came from hard work on the pad of each one. He kept his nails manicured and clean; so unusual for a man of his station. She would look around at the boorish Knights, eating their food with their rough hands; courting noble ladies gently while beating servants or yelling at staff. She imagined, for one mad moment, the feel of those small calluses on her skin as those gentle fingers removed her clothes. Imagined them entwining her hair as they lay outside on some summer's day, her head on his chest, his arms around her. And then he filled her glass and those hands were gone. She shifted on her chair, embarrassed and told herself she had been drinking too much wine.

* * *

The problem with him was his clumsiness. Other servants could go their entire lives without a single noble person noticing them as anything other than a convenience for them to command. They were supposed to be subservient, silent and unnoticeable.

Every time he tripped over or dropped something, all eyes veered his way. Sometimes he would cast his eyes down as he noticed their gaze but mostly he good-naturedly gathered up whatever it was he spilled all over the floor and went on his way with a pleasant smile. Once he made a joke to a visiting Lord and Lady about being Camelot's entertainment. The Lord had looked at him confused but the Lady had smiled and laughed. Her eyes had followed him as he walked away and she imagined sitting somewhere intimate with him later on, laughing about the noblewoman who had somehow been enamoured of his inability to stay on his feet. She imagined cornering him in an alcove somewhere, his hands gripping a tray with Arthur's breakfast, desperate not to spill it as she stole kisses. She imagined a world where his clumsiness belonged to her.

* * *

The problem with him was his passion. Servants tolerated what was wrong with the world; they couldn't change it and it made no sense to rail against it. Servants simply endured as all Camelot's peasants endured. With Uther they had been given the great gift of a hatred of sorcery; pouring their confusion and helplessness into accusations of witchcraft, into the cathartic joy of the execution. They had welcomed the Wtichfinder as an old friend, the great equaliser, their repressed aggression bursting free from their helplessness ready to tear down to prove they had some measure of control over their lives.

He would rail against the coming of the night; against the fear and ignorance; against the injustices of the world. He stood before Uther in the court; bold determination on his face. His teeth gritted with his passion and he declared the Witchfinder a fraud. He stood a mere servant in front of the two men who terrified her most and came out unscathed and vindicated. She imagined that passion cocooned around her and felt for a moment the protection of that great love.

* * *

The problem with him was his ears. At first they had seemed silly, so innocent, so Merlin. Later she had stopped noticing them, as though they simply didn't register with her anymore. Now she found herself thinking about what it would feel like to take a lobe between her teeth, to run her fingers down the fold of skin, to whisper desperate things in them while he lay above her.

* * *

The problem with him was that he was a servant. If she were a man or perhaps older - married, the heirs of her husband safely born - maybe it would be tolerated or ignored. Maybe she would even enjoy crass conversations with her friends about her conquest. But for now she knew the truth she sometimes whispered to herself in her quiet honest moments, when she thought of his eyes, his smile, his hands, his passion, his clumsiness and his ears.

The problem with Merlin was that he was Merlin. And there was simply nothing she could do about it.


	2. The Problem with Morgana

**A/N - Ok, due to popular demand, we have Merlin's POV...drum roll... this may not be what everyone was expecting but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.**

* * *

Even in his busy life there are small moments gained for reflection. They are rare quiet times when his mind can assess all that has happened; can finally sort it and make sense of it and file it away. Mostly they come when he is sprawled on his small pallet at night, on those rare occasions when he doesn't fall into a fast, exhausted sleep. Sometimes they are moments of beauty so striking that little else can penetrate for those few stolen minutes of calm: a clear moonlit night from the windows of the great castle; the unicorn in the glade; the cold stream with breaking ice after the winter thaw; the sunrise glinting through trees still dripping with morning rain, scattering the light into rainbow shards.

Sometimes he fills these moments with Arthur; the frustrations of the man, the constant wearying worry about his safety. Sometimes his mind flicks to Gwen, her kind heart and confused love. Often in these times he allows himself his fear of Uther; the crushing terror of discovery. Rarely now he lets his heart remember a brief burst of kinship; the firelight from candles dancing before Freya's sad eyes. He cries tears for her body burning in a boat up on a lake. And sometimes, when he has time, he ponders the problem.

The problem is that he'd told Gaius he'd protect her.

He knows that it's his fault that she's left alone with the knowledge of her gift. He knows he is a coward for not admitting to her that he also has magic. When he has the time he regrets the decision, the fear that kept his mouth shut. He regrets the coward that kept his secret while she confided in him hers. She is used to power, used to control over her own life and now she has none. She knows that at any moment all the things that she takes for granted could be taken away: her status, the love of Uther, the respect of Arthur. All of these would be burnt in the flames, consumed on the pyre. And yet his fear binds him still. His destiny calls and he cannot achieve it if he has to run. Who will protect them all when he is gone?

The problem is that he promised himself he'd protect her.

That day he returned from the Druids, he made a pledge to Gaius that he would take care of her. How genuinely he made that pledge and yet it has been many months and he cannot even remember the last time they spoke. Each time he has caught a breath, another crisis has descended and he is but one man.

There are moments when Arthur is not commanding him, Gaius is not swaying him and the dragon is not trying to control him, when he looks up through long lashes and sees her staring at him; desperate for a connection in a world that has rejected the idea of her. In the corner of his eye, he can see her withdrawal, see her absence. He will look around the room and notice suddenly that she is not there beside Uther as she once was. If she is, her eyes are blank, looking inward to herself. He remembers the vibrant extraordinary beauty he first met and wonders when this pale imitation took her place.

He smiles, he greets her, his eyes try to convey his understanding of her. He tends to her at feasts and tries to make sure her goblet is full. He makes jokes in front of her, hoping to cheer her. He confronts the Witchfinder with her as much in mind as Gaius. He hopes in these small actions she will see that he thinks of her. He longs to tell her that she is not alone, to care for her as he cares for so many others. Between Arthur and Gaius and Camelot and his destiny and his chores and the dragon he is just so busy.

But one day, one day he will finally have the hours. One day he will go to her chamber and discuss the magic. He will let her know she has only to speak to him in confidence and he will listen. One day he will take the time to discover the problem with Morgana. But the small time for reflection is past, the night is over, the busy day has begun. And today is not that day.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed. I originally envisioned the first piece as being somewhere in S3 and was going to wait till the end of S2 before I wrote this. However, I'm a bit worried from the trailers that they're going to hit a "Morgana is evil" button (look at the remarkable transformation! Lonely to evil in only 40 minutes!) so had to get in first and work with what they're giving us in S2. As always, please review.**


	3. The Problem with Merlin and Morgana

**Merlin**

She had betrayed Camelot.

He knew it when the soporific spell began to work on him but she remained unaffected, protected.

He knew it when he saw she was not surprised to see Morgause.

He knew it when the Knight refused to kill her.

The dragon had said it but he had not believed him; not really. But when had he ever been wrong before?

Maybe he hadn't been there for her. Maybe he hadn't noticed what she had been doing. Maybe he should have revealed his magic to her; spoken to her when she stole the crystal; comforted her when the Witchfinder came; been the friend she called him. Maybe he should have done a lot of things. But when the Knight's sword flew toward her neck but he did not strike, when he saw the look on her face at Morgause's name, he knew.

She had betrayed Arthur.

And it was Arthur in the hallway now fighting for his life. It was Gaius lying helpless downstairs. It was he who had to do the unthinkable to save their lives.

She called him a good friend but no friendship could change what she had done without thought. No friendship could change her link to a spell that even now bound Camelot into the helplessness of sleep. No friendship would allow an alliance with someone so intent on their destruction. No friendship could change what she had done.

She had betrayed him. He would never forgive her. He would never forgive himself.

**

* * *

**

Morgana

It wasn't her. Of all the things in the world she was unsure of, she was sure of this. She knew this wasn't her fault. It could not be. She had done nothing. Met a sympathetic ear in the woods; told them of her hatred for Uther. In her heart, she had hoped someone could bring his downfall.

But she was not responsible for this.

She had spent that morning watching people fall one-by-one, wondering when she would be next, realising that time would never come. What had happened in the woods? She did not remember, really. But it was not connected. She was sure.

And yet. She was unaffected by the sleeping spell. Morgause was in the castle, leading the Knights who had risen from the Fires of Idirsholas. One of whom had had the chance to kill her and had declined.

In her mind's eye, she saw Arthur. Knowing. Saw him, like his father, strike her down without a thought. She looked around her world and saw that Merlin was her only friend.

She could not be responsible for this.

She would never do this to Merlin, who even now was succumbing to the strange malaise that did not affect her. Merlin, who protected her even as he cast suspicious glances her way. Merlin, who lied for her to Arthur, who kept her secrets. In all the world, there was one man she knew that she could trust and it was Merlin. Merlin, from whom she kept the secret of her desire for him; the biggest secret of them all.

If they were all to die, at least that she would die knowing that she did not bring this doom upon the only person left in Camelot she cared about.

She would never admit to herself that she was responsible for this.

He handed her some water. He was concerned for her health, for her wellbeing. She drank deeply, wanting to please him.

As the swelling rose quickly up her throat and she began to choke, she saw the tears in Merlin's eyes, saw him nod once to acknowledge his guilt, felt his arms around her. Those arms that she had long dreamed of being wrapped around her, were now cradling her to death.

And before she lost the consciousness she needed so desperately to survive, in one heartbreaking moment, she knew.

He had betrayed her. And if she lived, she would never forgive him.

* * *

**A/N As tempted as I was to write one sentence that said, "the problem with Morgana is that winning her trust requires only a 10-second meeting and a bangle", and "the problem with Merlin is that he never realised a 10-second conversation an episode ago might have stopped this from happening", I thought I should give you something a bit more substantial. I hope you don't mind that I've tried to fit this into canon. At least not as much as I mind the BBC's shamelessly lazy writing this season.**

**As always, review! And by the way, I have a '12 Days of Christmas' fic going at the moment with some very strong M/M. Check it out and let me know what you think. **


End file.
